


The Feud

by Futsin



Category: Laverne & Shirley (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Curses, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Family, Family History, M/M, Multi, Precognition, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futsin/pseuds/Futsin
Summary: What caused Frank DeFazio and Mr. Kosnowski to curse each other's descendants? A war over a magical relic? A curse that blighted one's family? How true are the tales we tell our children of that which came before? Perhaps it is not the past that must be honored, but the future.
Relationships: Laverne DeFazio/Lenny Kosnowski
Comments: 11
Kudos: 2
Collections: The Feud-Verse





	1. HISTORIES, BOTH REAL AND FABRICATED

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/gifts).



> Sequel to "by night one way, by day another" [a wonderful fic by Missy], thus a gift for a gift!

Milwaukee, Wisconsin was not known for magic.

That did not stop it from having two very angry men feuding by cursing each other's family members. It was a petty act borne from a slight that went back many years and in the process of time, modernization, and naturalizing to the American way of life, could be called tame compared to how the outrage had begun.

The story, so they had been told, went like this:

When the Clan DeFazio's most precious treasure, the Amulet of Artemisia, was stolen by a Polish explorer by the name of Kosnowski in the 1700s, a series of events unfolded slowly over more than two centuries. Some were acts of violence and others were acts of mischief. Altogether, any historians that tracked the lineage of the feud found every tale to be so tall, it reached the moon, Mars, or even Jupiter, then looped back around. Preposterous was too small a word to describe the outlandish stories that the DeFazios and the Kosnowskis had passed down.

The first tale, dating back to 1794, was the DeFazios' first retaliation. Giovanni Frezza DeFazio, the son of the man who'd lost the Amulet, sent witch-hunters to the mountains of Karnstein where the explorer's family were staying on retreat. What followed was two weeks of disappointing dinners, inquisitions in the neighboring villages, and a bloodbath involving vampires; a stalemate was declared on the final sunrise and it was thought the Amulet was lost in the beginning of the battle. This was half-true, as the illegitimate child of Andrezj Kosnowski had taken the Amulet thinking it was a powerful item. She hoped to bargain with the witch-hunters for her father's life, only to see him beheaded before she could get a word out. Instead, she fled to France and the Belmont Family's manor as her father had told her to before his demise.

What remained of the Kosnowski family fought back and sent a plague to the DeFazios in 1804. It was not a swarm of the undead as later Italian filmmakers would fictionalize in the 1980s, but instead, the humblest of monsters - moths. Grape Berry Moths were summoned by the powerful magicians of the Kosnowski family and their related brethren, laying waste to an entire vineyard and those that neighbored it. Those who kept the local history kept trying to explain that it was a drought, it was poorly tended soil, and seeds that had come from shady businessmen. But the DeFazios knew it was the magic of the Kosnowskis that had ruined them.

The next time the clans crossed paths would be in the 1830s, when the Kosnowskis had returned to exploring the planet for more of its magical secrets hidden deep in the tombs of the blind dead. The DeFazios, too, had begun to wander the Earth, learning new trades such as baking and becoming adept at handling sporting events' refreshments. While on a long-distant trek to gather supplies for her father's eatery in Rome, Edwina DeFazio ran headlong into the now wizened Andrea Kosnowski, Andrezj' daughter. They found themselves drawn to one another in the dining car of a long train ride, as the wheels of fate turned. Many accounts of this meeting vary. Some say they were immediate enemies, casting spells through the train that led to brain damage of other passengers, bloody hands tearing children away from open windows at night, and made the train's staff turn into violent demons who fought and fucked all night. Others say the two became fast friends, gals being pals, who dined together unknowing of their family history. And still some say that the mature Andrea took an immediate liking to the young Edwina, teaching the twenty-year-old the pleasures of the flesh after a seductive wine-and-dine. (truthfully, those ones sold the best and were published widely with changed names)

The truth was that they dined together out of a sense of caution. They felt it a curiosity more than anything else. While Andrea longed for the death of her father to be avenged, yet she saw Edwina as a serene beauty who had none of the harsh brutality the DeFazios had become known for among the Kosnowskis and even with the Belmonts where Andrea had lived for decades. She was on the train for her expedition to discover whether the Book of the Dead had indeed been found in Sanaa. There was no reason for her to interrupt so important a journey over a violent past she had tried to bury in her mind. And to see that the DeFazios had been reduced to even more meager peasants than before, she could hold no grudge. Edwina was a young woman who could not be trusted, but showed no sign of being a threat. And to her own credit, the young DeFazio did not believe in the curse, the Amulet, or any of the other fanciful stories her father had told her. 

The one universal truth, however, was one thing not discussed on the train encounter: the location of the Amulet. 

While Edwina and her side of the family had moved on from the days of the Great Moth Plague, her cousin Mario held onto the old bloody grudge. His grandfather's side had taken it as the greatest slight; from the theft to the surviving of the Karnstein massacre to the ruination of good wine. Hate turned them superstitious. Like the DeFazio patriarchs of old, whose ancient names could no longer be uttered in Italian in public, their fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters turned to the old magic, buried deep in the catacombs of Sicilian ruins and locked away in church towers outside Palermo. The magic lay bound in great tomes and grimoires, once the source of mighty power. Every spell had allowed them to tend land that should not be tended, defeat beasts that could not be tamed, and master the human soul from the realm of sin.

Back in France, Andrea never married, passing the heirloom she had sworn to protect to her nephew Jakub who returned to Poland. Through a strange twist of fate, Mario discovered this, through Edwina no less as the two had crossed paths on a summer trip to Paris, and she had mentioned it in passing at a family gathering the following autumn. Seizing on the opportunity and knowing Edwina had no belief in his powers, Mario began a campaign against the Kosnowskis once more.

The tales that followed, once more, had many interpretations and even more tangled webs of plot holes, inconsistencies, and virulent hyperbole. 

By the 1850s, Jakub Kosnowski grew into a talented musician who played at regal events for the noblety throughout Europe. The cello he wielded like an extension of his soul, romancing more than a few ladies (and even a couple of prestigious men) as he toured, and winning the respect, admiration, the influence of many of the aristocracy within Poland, Russia, Turkey, and even as far west as England. His family was able to use this connection to build an even greater wealth and witness the coming of the age of industry. They consolidated the family, even moving elderly Andrea back to Poland, finally marshalling a force of Kosnowskis.

It was good that they did, for no one in the Kosnowski family realized that the smallest inconveniences and greatest tragedies, had possibly (if legends were to be believed) come from a single source. The rise of Mario DeFazio and his Legione di la Magia; an overblown name for a family of five whose fiery spirit more than made up for their small numbers. Empowered by the Eibon Grimoire uncovered by Lucio DeFazio, they started small by infiltrating the events where the Kosnowskis were expected to appear. Tainted food was the first act; poisoned with herbs grown in hell. It affected everyone at the New Leisure Society chapter in Kaprun, Austria (including the two Kosnowskis present) and caused a quickly-silenced incident of a ruined engagement. More misfortunes followed. Driving members of the Kosnowskis' servant class mad through magic'd nightmares was the next step, leading to outrageous outbursts and threats of revolt in Poland. It culminated in the bloody transformation of Countess Gabrielle Kosnowski into a raving harpy who decimated the New Year's Eve party in 1885, a feat that Mario's son Lamberto prided himself on till his dying breath.

But as the escalation of dastardly destruction and magical madness rose through the 19th century, a new thing began to unfold - belief in the sciences. The magic of the old world was giving way to the logical thinking of the new one; the Kosnowskis believed less in the magic of old, turning in the archeaology for industry, politics, rulership. The tall tales of Gabrielle's transformation were cast out as raving lunacy, as were the other sordid stories and brutal histories. There would be no more acts of magical torment for years, leading many to believe they were nothing more than folklore to scare people or that the family curse was not the result of a theft, but merely insanity that seemed to affect every noble bloodline.

Family members who held onto the old ways died, from Andrea and her stories of Edwina, to Jakub being buried in a landslide along with his beloved daughter Gabrielle, all taking the truth with them. Among the DeFazios, similarly the stories of Mario's family were considered the dirty laundry that should never be spoken of. Though the tale of the spelled mask transforming a Polish countess was spread at some family dinners in Italy, it was also the last act of the Legion di la Magia before financial woe and a police inquiry back home sent the entire DeFazio clan into a difficult decision of Find a New Way of Life.

That was when the migration began in earnest.

Many members of both families had emigrated to the new America that had risen just before the feud began, laying foundations for those from the old countries to come in themselves. Some were those on the most tertiary ends of the respective trees or a couple of those who could afford to, but in the end what mattered was the future was coming. Magic's glow had dimmed and the Edison bulb had come to replace it.

Though Jakub's grandson was given the Amulet, he wore it casually with no regard as to its history or its secrets. He wanted to be an educated man who would change the world. Instead, the world changed without him. War broke out across the entire globe, a catastrophe that reminded him of the tales his grandfather had said of distant relative Andrea Kosnowski's explorations into the occult. This grandson found his home stripped clean by the conflict, losing his own name and leaving with his family across a crater-peppered Europe. They faced prophecized days of armageddon the Bible could exaggerate yet somehow never come close to describing, before making their way to America. They retained their Kosnowski blood, but the legend of them, the wealth of them, and their long lineage was an echo like a song played in a distant room. What remained of their documented history lay in journals and the artifacts, relics, from Andrea, her father Andrezj, the Belmonts' collection that somehow made it into their care in the 1890s (reportedly another vampiric encounter on the Belmont family side; as was the style at the time), and somehow all of these were in the grandson's care. Now a young man with nothing, he found a solace in holding onto the past he had so flippantly disregarded.

That man, who would later be known only as Mr. Kosnowski even among his family members, held close to the books, especially those whose curses bore deep into the soul. He did not need a first name after a time, for his keeping of the history, of the legend, made him representative of them all. Through his youth and adulthood, artifacts would be sold but the Amulet would be held close. He stayed up night after night reading the scriptures of distant mages and forgotten civilizations, trying to memorize every word, every idea, every legend and its meaning. 

And though he held tight to the traditions, the old country's ways and his family's history, he woke each day in a new America rising out of a depression and headed right for another great war. It was a world changing rapidly, faster than any river he had seen or falling bomb from the sky; something that Mr. Kosnowski admired yet loathed. Once he became a parent, the time to read, reflect, and learn more grew smaller. Marriage was its own history, one made in the day and night. Parenthood was another, for he had to continue his family's story through his children. As the other Kosnowskis did, he changed with the times.

But he reflected often on the texts he read until he need not read them again or the pages had turned to dust. Often within them, Andrea's translations held their own secrets that so frustrated him; tales of how love would set one free and that the Amulet was not theirs, yet she spoke of it vaguely. Mr. Kosnowski knew that it was folly... for love had not protected his mother from the soldiers or spared his father from the dockmen who took what should have been his inheritance. And the Amulet was the only thing he truly had of the family left.

Meanwhile, another half of the feud migrated as well. The DeFazios moved to America, settling in Little Italy, New York and quickly becoming one of the loudest, most boisterous, and colorful families in the neighborhood. (and, at the time, that was saying something) Those that married into it had no idea that Lamberto's descendants, and thus Mario and Lucio and Giovanni's, were among them. Often one son or daughter would keep the secret Eibon Grimoire passed around, telling the family lore of retaliation against the Polish family for their furious indiscretion (a theft that became a massacre that became a revolt that became a war, as legends so often do). 

Thus the Legione di la Magia was barely kept alive, though considerably inactive save the occasional wine-enhancing or cursing a neighbor for singing too loud at night. A young Fabrizio DeFazio was born and raised within this climate, himself being given the Talk; in Italian as had been tradition since coming to America. While his siblings didn't care much for the tales, Fabrizio on the otherhand loved them. Heroes and villains, great mystical creatures, wondrous fortunes and awful ruin... they were wonderful legends, things he felt proud of in their history, things he felt slighted for with the tales of the Moth Plague and the theft of the Amulet of Artemisia (by this point, Fabrizio was hearing the version that involved the Kosnowskis sneaking into the great villa on the coast, killing guards and burning down the tower where the amulet had been kept safe for "thousands of generations").

Then, he had to go to school and get laughed at, beaten up, and smacked by his teacher for relaying not even half of it. One even threatened to wash his mouth out with soap when he spoke of "gals being pals" on a choo-choo train.

When he told his mama, who herself had a passing familiarity through Fabrizio's father, she told him that they were just stories. "All families have a story," she said, "and it is how they wish to remember those they love. You think I'm going to tell everyone how you wet the bed when you were sick? You think I want your brother Fungi to say how his father beat me? No! We wish to be knights and princesses, whose magic is known the world over. They are not true, my dear sweet wonderful squishy adorable Fabrizio. Except the part about curses and the Amulet."

Thus Fabrizio put these tales away in his mind and felt the weariness of growing up hit him in his spartan youth. Until it came time for him to be married to a wonderful woman, a woman he couldn't believe he'd gotten so lucky to have. And she gave him... a daughter. His uncles, the ones who had taught him the tales of the Legione di La Magia, were furious about it, raging that he'd somehow weakened the bloodline with more women. Fabrizio fought with them about it, for weeks, saying he would have more. He loved his daughter, dear sweet Laverne, who had been as his wife called her the day she was born, "our little muffin." He loved being a father, he loved being a husband. He would have more children. The Legione wanted more men? Fine. He'd give it to them. So, at least, he thought.

For you see, within the unknown, there is a whimsical mischief. Some call it fate. Others call it bullshit.

Fabrizio, realizing he wanted to live the American dream and build his family up the same way that his ancestors had done after the Moth Plague had ruined their vineyards. But New York was a place of disarray, of prejudice, and most of all it was dangerous in the time of war that was soon coming. So, he and his wife and little Laverne moved to a smaller city, where there were still docks, still great food, none of the crime of Chicago or New York, and beautiful lakes and forests that reminded the now-Americanized Frank of the times he'd visited the old country, both before and after the war he served in.

And then, his wife fell ill. Mysteriously, quickly, and fatally. It had started one evening with a cough when they were at a department store before closing. That night, she descended into a delirium that kept Frank and Laverne up, unable to sleep until the early hours. The doctor said the sickness seemed to have no cause; the symptoms showed her body withering from the inside. Her hands grew weak, her eyes cloudy, and her voice croaked. A week after, marks began to show upon her skin; dark, splotchy things that became wretched postules and bloody scabs. Frank DeFazio recognized immediately in that moment what was happening to his beloved wife; she was cursed and far enough along that not even the magic of his uncles would save her.

On her deathbed, Frank spoke to her of the world she would see after, based on the beautiful wonders that had been told to him in tales of La Magia... she smiled every time she slept, comforted by the idea of such beautiful forests and freeing clouds and cities made of crystal. He picked her flowers on his way home from work every day, making a crown so she would be greated as a queen in the Kingdom to come. 

In church, he prayed to God for blessings. Each time Father Gucci telling him there was hope for her soul yet. That is, until the one time the padre visited the humble shamble of an apartment the DeFazio family lived in. At once, he was overcome by a difficulty breathing and he immediately asked if there was any holy water in the liquor cabinet. And the moment his eyes gazed upon the rasping, feeble woman in Frank's bed, he had frozen in place. 

What Frank had thought would be a nice social visit had turned into the giving of last rites.

Not too far from the place where Frank and little Laverne said their goodbyes to the one who meant the most to them, Mr. Kosnowski was in his own state of delirious horror. Nightmares befell him of terrible sights; a wasteland upon which headless titans sheared the living, a door of seven opening unto nightmares, a tower of evil wherein the souls of the innocent would be enslaved, and other omens of what could be should nothing be done. Though his family believed this the ravings of a man growing older by the minute, he knew deep in his heart there was something evil to be sought and vanquished back to the realm of prisonic fairytale.

Thus he looked deep into the books he still had that were not yet memorized. His wife chided him for it until he told her begone, afterward telling his children and their children begone. Even the young Leonard, so reluctant to leave his grandfather's side, would eventually leave Mr. Kosnowski to his books and relics.

And the Amulet, which needed at long last be used for a new purpose.

Years passed from the fateful week; when Laverne's mother died and Lenny's grandfather did something wholly awful and wonderful.

Fabrizio DeFazio suffered his grief and raised his beloved daughter as best he could, hoping never to remarry, for who could best an angel? He opened a business, a good and modern business, putting away in a metaphorical box within himself the stories he had been told. While his heart had hardened further from the poverty which he did his best to meet with dignity and pride, there was still a glow within him. Sometimes, he dreamt of a little boy in a villa on the southern coast, who read of magic and plotted a great retribution upon those who wronged his family.

Mr. Kosnowski carried with him terrible secrets, for soon after he needed to be there for his grandson in ways he never expected. Though he did not teach Lenny the old ways, no matter how often he asked, there was a bond between the two that could not be broken. Yet in his own dreams, he feared such chaos as he had seen would rise again and that the dreams he had seen in dark insane sleep would be omens of what was to come.


	2. THE THIRD MEETING OF TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present time, Milwaukee feels its own storm system take new shape as old wizards meet to negotiate once more.

The streets emptied the night of the meeting. Only a handful, not even a half-dozen people, knew of what was to happen that night. Yet the city's denizens from the Third Ward to Story Hill, from Greenway to Jackson Park, stayed indoors when the fog rolled in. Above the world, fierce clouds came to form and thunder, as if the sky had been awakened from a deep slumber it was upset to rouse from. By the time the rain started, already all the children of Milwaukee were bereft of sweet dreams and the adults watched while terror pumped like adrenaline into their veins. No flood warnings were reported by the meteorologists, nor heavy winds to down trees or powerlines. A universal truth, however, came to rest in the mind of all those who were awake. The city was not known for magic. Somehow, it had arisen anyway.

Frank DeFazio pulled his rain coat over his body with the creak of old joints, strained muscle, wondering if he was making a big damn mistake all over again. The old man had in no ways budged since the negotiations had begun the prior October. Communicating with him took time, often through a proxy like his daughter's best friend or the old man's grandson's... whatever. As he tightened his hat on his head, Frank muttered to himself how his uncles never told him there would always be a price to a curse. He tapped his pocket to ensure the booklet was still there. There wasn't much he could figure out, as the words had faded in the years since he'd taken it out of the ruined keep, but maybe something in there was enough to keep Mr. Kosnowski on his toes tonight.

After walking the steps down from his apartment into the Pizza Bowl's interior, he double-checked the wards on the ovens, the bathrooms, the bowling lanes, and even the jukebox. The sigils, disguised as little designs that looked like his daughter Laverne done as a doodle, were still etched clean and secure. As he went, reflections drifted through his mind like the swirls of fog he could see through the windows upstairs. Thoughts came and went, sometimes whisked away by his hand or a growl to himself, others fell because lingering made him sad, disappointed, guilty. Nights like these, when he could feel La Magia close, he thought of the final days of Josephine. Each memory that came, from the first cough to the last breath, brought his eyes to focus again on the protection spells he had put upon the building. And then, to the design based on his muffin, dear Laverne, that kept it hidden.

Had he failed, given their predicament, to keep her safe from what he knew the world could do? What his uncles told him the world really was?

Hearing the winds starting to pick up outside dashed the questions on the rocks of forgetfulness and allowed Frank to come back again to the world presently with force. He pushed the doors of the Pizza Bowl open to let the cold mist surround him like a velvet glove. The key in his hand hesitated little as he locked his business up for the night even as the rain settled down to let the wind howl through the city streets. Heavy steps turned him `round to face the damp fog that obscured his sight of the road ahead. But like every day in the army of the second world war, Frank DeFazio stirred up his courage, thought of what he fought for, and pushed forward.

* * *

* * * * * *

Some blocks away at the Hotel Pfister, Mr. Kosnowski was arriving in the truck driven by his grandson. Soft-faced and blue-eyed boy Leonard, known as Lenny to his friends, looked out at the glow of the lamps illuminating the entrance to the hotel. The golden colors were faded by the mist, flickering as puffs of the fog moved in the wind. It felt less like the entrance to a place of shelter, more the gates to the underworld.

Even then, Lenny had been here before, more than a few times with the beer deliveries for Shotz. He hoped now for this third time he took his grandfather for a meeting with Mr. DeFazio, that at long last they would get closer to releasing both families of their individual curses. At the very least, Shirley and Squiggy had informed him (and Laverne, so they'd both said) that there was a plan taking shape. For too long, the young had relied on the old to design their destinies. Shirley said it was time they started writing them for themselves.

In the meantime, he helped his grandfather step out of the beer truck's cab, apologizing for the smell of wet dog and making sure the old man was safely through the doors of the Hotel Pfister. With a wave of his hat, Mr. Kosnowski was on his own and headed for the dining hall. Lenny sighed as he drove away and deep down said a little prayer to all the angels, maybe a devil or two, and whatever God or Gods happened to be listening. Maybe, just maybe, the feud could get closer to ending. Or, his optimistic side said, maybe it could just end altogether tonight! Yeah. That'd be nice.

Meanwhile, in the hotel itself, Mr. Kosnowski shook the rain from his coat and allowed one of the hotel staff, a rather fox-like man with a sharp wit to his voice and a bushy mustache for being so youthful, to take the burden of it from him. The old Polish man was unsurprised to enter the restaurant and see Fabrizio DeFazio still wearing his coat. A cautious man was to be feared, but one too cautious was one to be taken lightly. Mr. Kosnowski bowed his head, smiled, when the two made eye contact and though the Italian made a little nod, he did not return the expression of glad tidings or appreciation.

The two men sat at a square table set aside for them near the center of the room. While some patrons still ate in the restaurant, their movements were marked by fierce clatters of cutlery and loud shudders of anxiety. The eyes of those near would occasionally draw close to them, only for it to be whisked away by a whisper followed by a crick in the neck. 

First, they ordered. The waiter looked pale as Frank ordered red wine. "I had Italian tonight," he said. And Kosnowski sighed, amused exasperation. "Of course you did," he said, the timbre a low growl of age and impatience of inequal measure; going by the law that for every year past the age of thirty-five, one's patience was depleted another 20% even after reaching negative numbers. The waiter took Mr. Kosnowski's order of clam chowder.  
When the room settled and it was clear that the patrons were not going to distract them for much longer, at last Mr. Kosnowski spoke.  
"My grandson says your daughter has been very helpful lately."

Frank bristled, tensing his hands and wishing he had a beer can to smash. Of course he brought up Laverne, trying to get under his skin. "And my daughter says your grandson hasn't taken a crap on the carpet in a while."  
A flush of red somehow made it into the old man's cheeks, which made Frank grin just a little.

"Well," Mr. Kosnowski said, "have you consulted?"

"I have had trouble communicating," said Frank, a sigh that relaxed his body in shame and built up his emotional walls. He spoke quieter, angrier, refusing eye contact. "They're... not really all that interested in knowing what I'm up to."

At that, Kosnowski leaned an arm on the table and leaned forward. "Why in God's name aren't they?" His eyes flickered angry. "You cursed my boy, made him a dog. A foosh'ing dog!" Somehow he could yell and his voice got quieter. Frank hated that, so he stayed silent. Kosnowski went on; "And you will refuse to tell me why. Now, you refuse to tell me why your _Familia_ of vile idiots-" Suddenly his eyes widened and his jaw went slack.

"You don't know how to reverse the curse, do you?"

Frank turned back on him in an instant, pointing his angry finger that might be old but could still make a fist worthy of killing Capone in one blow, that not even Carmine "The Big Ragoo" would dare challenge to a fight. He stared down this man whose family had dishonored him, had brought misery, shame, torture upon his house. _And_ , a little voice in his head hissed, _he took her away._ "I could curse you where you stand, you _punk_. And I could undo it and do it again! Just to watch your expression change each time I do it. But _you_ refuse to give it _back_."

It was that moment there was a clearing of the throat. The two men finally noticed their waiter had returned. This was their third meeting and the poor guy had gotten used to these moments, but he also had a job to do. "Your wine, sir. The chowder will be here momentarily." Kosnowski smirked, knowing at least he'd get something out of the evening.

Frank turned his head to look it over. It was all right, a decent year. He flit an eye at his opponent. "Is it my turn or your turn to pay tonight?" Kosnowski shrugged and replied, "What will it matter?" The Italian nodded at the wine choice, deciding to join his Polish equal in not giving a damn. Red flowed into his glass and he waved his fingers to signal the waiter to pour more, getting double the usual. When the young man was done, he left in as professional a manner as possible. Frank sipped his wine which granted him the slightest of smiles.  
Another rumble from Kosnowski's throat as he uttered, " _oszukać_ " and had himself a sip of water. "The amulet is a symbol, boy, of mistakes made and of the equally foolish tales our families have woven. You are a petulant man who wishes to control, the same as your... Di Magia... pah. You don't know magic, because you don't respect it."

Frank scowled, hating to be treated as small when he had experienced his own miseries, tragedies, victories, and accomplishments. The curse he had bound upon the young Lenny was one he had even conjured himself through a blending of incantations and a particular ingredient in a piece of pizza he made special for the boy. How else could he have made something so beautifully succinct, so purely split of a man-by-night and animal-by-day, if he did not know magic? And respect, he wanted to speak of respect? His uncles were family, how much more respectful could you get?

They sat silently for a long time after that. The clam chowder arrived and slowly old man Kosnowski sipped it through tender wrinkled lips, blue eyes like his grandson's staring into the milky soup and watching the flow of pieces of potato sliding loose from the spoon. They splashed and in his deep concentration, he felt the waves of kinetic energy they made as remembrance of Andrea ran wild within his mind. Some nights in his youth, studying the writings of hers that been given to him, he would dream of her and hear her humming a melody. In that moment in yet another ill-fated meeting with his bloodline's nemesis, it cooled his mind and helped to ease the simmer of rage that the hot-faced DeFazio drove toward him with a piercing stare.

Emanating from the two, whose bloodlines had feuded for over a century and a half, were powers that soon after chased away the other patrons. Those poor bystanders who had not intended to stay the night in the building hurried home, hearing the sounds of thunder outside so terrifyingly close they gripped their bones. Any that did stay in the Hotel Pfister ascended the stairs with focused determination. The last person to leave the restaurant to the two men was a youthful woman in her mid-twenties, dressed elegantly but modern. She gave a passing glance to Frank and in a bolt of lightning that passed through the windows and curtains, into the room, his eyes locked upon the spirit of the woman.

Frank saw the flash of terror in her face, of things she couldn't know or understand as she was, suddenly reminded of his own Laverne. The daughter he had failed to protect and who was now somewhere a stray animal in the streets of Milwaukee.

And so he smiled at the woman as best he could, the rage brought down and whatever spells were coming forth from his clenched fists dissipating into the ether once more. Mr. Kosnowski was smirking his way when Frank turned back to him.

"So, then. Where were we?" the older man asked.

"I think," said Frank, "we were talking about the time when your ancestor destroyed an entire train of people."

"Ah. That one."

"And tell it the right way this time!" Frank grunted at him.

Mr. Kosnowski bowed his head. "You mean you want me to lie again?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a tad lean because we'll be cross-cutting a bit. I may come back and punch it up later.


	3. A TASTE OF LIFE AND DEATH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the storm rages, while Shirley and Squiggy break into a museum seeking something that may unlock another path to truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO_BE_EDITED - wanted to get this done since it's been months (months!!!) of working on it off-and-on. Expect a few tweaks/changes/additions in a few weeks!

What little light of the moon could still shine through the storm made uneven, patterned beams through the museum's skylight. Lightning from the cranky clouds flashed, illuminating the most on-going exhibit of the Milwaukee Public Museum. Hieroglyphics, sarcophagus installations, and glass-encased relics of ancient Egypt lay quiet in the hall they found themselves in. 

"And there we is, Shirl. In the mummy's TOMB!" Shrill words came forth from Andrew Squiggman (Squiggy to most) as he took in the scene with wide eyes and a slack jaw. He slipped the lockpick kit back into his jean pocket before smoothing out the fedora on his head.

Shirley Feeney rolled her eyes, then pulled the flashlight out of her jacket pocket, the shifting in her shoulders making her have to adjust the thick bag strapped over her shoulder. "Squiggy, we need to be _discrete_. We agreed to _sneak_ in here and _steal_ something." She hissed each S that when he turned over his head over at her, Squig stuck his tongue out at her.

 _At least he did_ that _quietly_ , Shirley thought. Sneaker-clad feet carried her forward and Squig came up in tow. This was not their first break-in, nor their first late-night adventure, and for some strange reason they had turned an initially fierce animosity into an exasperated partnership built on shared study sessions and interviewing every antique or book store owner in the city.

It was, in fact, Squiggy who had found out from an interview in Famous Monsters magazine that a so-called Book of the Dead had found its way into the hands of a traveling exhibit. He would have thought nothing of it, as he really was just reading the issue to Lenny when he was in dog form and they didn't have enough money to buy it from the news stand. Lenny's grandfather had told stories of his ancestors being explorers and adventurers and archeologists... a thought which had been in Squiggy's brain the moment he read of a mysterious book used for a new Hammer movie's research.  
  
It turned out, of all things, that the traveling exhibit had made it into Wisconsin and gotten stuck due to running out of travel funds. At least, that was what the papers had said. Local legend told a different tale. Stories said the benefactor had mysteriously disappeared, after a rather violent encounter in the mid-1940s, leaving a stink of debt and death that no other venue wanted to pick up the tab to move. And now the Ancient Egypt exhibit had been a mainstay of the Milwuakee Public Museum for so long that neither Squiggy nor Shirley, Lenny nor Laverne, had thought to investigate it. 

That night, while a storm of magical energies raged outside, the partners in crime made their way past glass cases with more relics held within. Some of them were old books or tablets from eras so far gone their histories were vaguely guessed at. Others were simple objects from households of the rich and famous of Egypt or Sudan. Deeper into the exhibit they went and through a passage into the next room, they found rows of macabre spectacle. Untombed mummies resting under glass (and alarms), tools for the mummification, jars filled with supposed bodily fluids exhumed from toxic pyramids that had killed the very explorers who opened them.

Squiggy stopped short at recognizing one particular item and had to read the plaque to confirm it. His eyes went agog and mouth open like an excited child in a candy store. "Hey, Shirl, check it out!" He pointed at the sharp blade, pointed, with a handle made of a human spine blade. "They got an actual Kandarian-" A yank at his jacket pulled him from the sight as Shirley, shivering and disgusted, hoisted him along.

"We don't have time for that, Squiggy." She glanced over her shoulder at it, nevertheless, feeling a chill run down her own spine. This was the part of the exhibit she'd never visited at all, let alone at night. She tugged at her companion, who pointed things out which at least helped her navigate where they were and where they were going. 

Once more, she sighed.

Their labyrinthe journeys into the supernatural history of the world had started almost immediately after the revelation of the curse that bound Lenny to be canine at day while Laverne was locked to feline excursions at night.

Squiggy had believed it even when Lenny was in dog form the first time, barking up a storm and following the truck after not being allowed to the Brewery. They'd first questioned whether the Teamsters gave hazard pay to dogs before going to the reknown Mr. Kosnowski for advice, which led a few days later to Shirley coming home to a cat inside the apartment she shared with best friend Laverne DeFazio. After fussing over the animal (which was first appreciative, then very hissy, then scared, and then affectionate), Shirley was curious where it had come from and over time, why Laverne hadn't come home that night. 

It wasn't until the next day at work, when a blushing Laverne thanked Shirley for reasons unknown and then asked if there was any tunafish left for a sandwich, that the connection was made.

Since then, the four had put their heads together. Laverne and Lenny worked on their respective families responsible for the curses now gripping their days and nights. Meanwhile, Shirley dragged Squiggy to the library (often shouting, sometimes kicking, and once he bit her hair) so they could read histories of the occult, leaving no fantasy or fiction to chance when realizing the unknown was still common in the modern world. 

Over time it had come to Squig that there were folks, weirdos, that came into his uncle Elliot's wax museum who also had connections and curious dispositions. It led him down backalleys and into secret gatherings that had given him a hundred different types of heebie-jeebies.

And after each dive within, they had to share. Typically with disappointment that led to sympathy, sometimes excitement that was shared with congratulations. It was like being back in high school in a weird way.

But, Shirley reminded herself as they stepped deeper into the ominous depths of the exhibit, when the two had been kids they didn't break into museums to steal ancient tomes full of possibly unspeakable power. The tip from a monster mag was a long shot and there was a good chance this book would be a dead end, but Laverne had a funny feeling when they'd brought up the lead earlier that week.

A funny feeling that both Shirley and Squiggy understood, as they noticed something on the dark floors ahead of them.

Footprints. Dusty, filthy. And there were flecks in it that Squiggy noticed when he peered down. The flashlight from his jacket pocket was pulled out and his thumb flicked it on, the little click of the bulb just before the luminance shown on fragments of rotted fibers. 

"Sh-Shirl," he wheezed softly in a fearful stammer, "th-that's not from the g-g-guard... right-t?"

Shirley swallowed, tight, feeling her throat swell. "Check the muh-muh-mummies..." She clapped a hand over her mouth at uttering the word, finding her face sweating already in the chilly night air. As she turned her head to look, she immediately noticed three empty sarcophaguses, in three open glass cases.

Squiggy checked for more footprints. From their enclosures, three sets of dusty feet led toward the next room, which was where the brochure said the Book was kept. The two held their breath to listen, yet beyond the distant rumbles of thunder outside, they heard nothing but their own bodies shuffling in the dark with fear.

One hand raised off the mouth for a small voice to say, "We should leave."

That was the cue for movement from Shirley's satchel. She squealed just before Squiggy got her cry covered with his hand (mercifully, it had been washed that evening). They watched as the bag slung over her shoulder shuffled until its button came loose, letting a small dark body on four legs hop out.

"Laverne!" Squig whhisspered, "You're gonna get us caught!"

In her small feline form, Laverne stretched out on the soft tiled floor, yawned, and rose. She smelled, looked upon the world, and then turned to Shirley and mewed. Squig cocked his head, jaw slack. "Yeah, I know we said we wuz gonna steal it, but that was before we realized there were _mummies_ from the _tomb_ walkin' around!" His voice was still low, yet one had to be impressed by how nasally it was.

Shirley broke free of Squiggy's grasp. "Squiggy, how many times do I have to tell you, you can't talk to Laverne like that?" She quickly crouched in front of Laverne, down on her knees, and as she looked into the eyes of her best friend-as-a-cat, she thought on a translation before-

"Meow? Mroew, meow. Mow-wow meow. Mrrrr.."

A moment later, Laverne turned around and flicked her tail on Shirley's face. A soft "mrrrpt" came from her and she padded alongside the dusty footprints. Heading right for the mummies' path and the thieves' destination. The chamber ahead was the darkest, deepest part of the exhibit, with a smaller skylight than the others. And like any cat with a swagger of confidence, Laverne strolled right for it.

Shirley made a clingy grab for her, but slipped forward onto the floor. A grunt escaped her lips before she could help herself. "Oooh, the nerve of that cat. I'll show her. I won't empty her litter box for a week." Then she felt a tug at the back of her pants as Squiggy gripped her belt and dragged her back up. A gasp fell out of her mouth, as the momentum carried her upright in a slight wobble. Blushing, she looked at Squiggy, who had another of his blank faces on. "What?" he asked.

If she was honest with herself, Shirley would have an answer. But their adventures together had been crazy enough she didn't have to think it.

The two, tense as could be, padded after Laverne's multi-colored shape that glided through the museum. Lightning flashed once more through the building, past skylights to bounce off clean floors and illuminate the walls. Shirley squeaked and huddled close to Squiggy, who in turn held his chattering mouth with one hand while keeping the shaking flashlight aimed out ahead of them to trace Laverne's path.

Each step became heavier, resistance building in Shirley's knees.

When no ambush came as they crossed into the next room, they unclenched their jaws and relaxed their shoulders. Laverne came to a stop in the middle of everything and cleaned herself with licks of her paw and wiping at her face, nose, and ear. Shirley was about to meow something in a whisper to her, when she noticed Squiggy aiming the flashlight around the room. Her wrist took his to stop him doing so.

As soon as the next lightning flash came, close enough they heard the thunder almost instantly, he turned the flashlight off in a hurry. Shirley froze.

Past the opening they'd come through and to the left, innocuously stood a wall with shelving carved into it. Two layers, each lined with more books and scrolls behind protective glass and joined by placecards describing a historian's arrogant assumption as to their contents meant. These were the oddities, the unknowns, and within this wall before the two thieves and a cat burgular, sat the Book of the Dead. 

And in front of the book, of the glass, stood three mummies with their arms crossed and heads down, guarding it.

Shirley couldn't take her eyes off them, wanting to seek Squiggy's gaze or get a warning to Laverne, yet her body did not listen. Animal nature made her scan the terrifying shapes that gripped her heart in a cold embrace, perhaps to understand it so she did not scream, or to know if they were a threat to her. Squiggy, for his part, made no noise and no sound, yet clearly he trembled, lip quavering. He thought he was gonna wet himself but didn't want to be that rude to someone he was planning to steal from.

So the two looked at the trio of book guardians, sentries. 

The wrappings of their bodies concealed much of their skin, yet that which peered through was dry, decrepit. Tight lips, bony wrists, decayed thighs. It reminded Shirley of the beef jerky her father had given her once in lieu of a meal. Within their torsos glowed pale light of a cold blue, a force that embodied life from animation to consciousness to soul. Dust breathed out of their lungs in small clouds, only visible when the flashes of nearby lightning showed their shape to the intruders.

Shirley almost squeaked when an intonation followed the next blast of thunder, caught seemingly in its tail. It came from the center mummy, a low rumble that crawled in the mind, becoming words, ideas, that somehow crossed the borders not only of human languages, but of the living and the dead.

_"You... have sought... the book..."_

Knowing it was directed toward not just her, but all three of them, Shirley nodded quick as she could before Squiggy said anything stupid.

"We have!" Her mouth was dry and she cleared her throat. "We have... we have, we, are..." She noticed Laverne was padding her way toward the three mummies, who all three looked down toward the cat approaching. There was an air of reverence in their slow undead movements. When Laverne stopped to sit on her feet before them, she stared into the center mummy, clearly the leader of the guardians.

In the quiet that followed, broken by the thunderstorm finally moving away from them, Shirley could just barely _feel_ the voices of the mummies. They explained themselves to Laverne, who was silent but saying everything in spirit. These magical things were still new to their experience in the modern era, yet as it had been the first moment Shirley had realized it was her best friend in cat form, there was a calling of an ancient truth that one's blood always recognized. Watching Laverne in congress, and likely making conversation with these undead shepherds of a powerful tome, was another such event.

Squiggy's shoes scraped the floor and made a squeak that startled her, and he was suddenly by her side clutching an arm. "Shirl, I think they wanna worship Laverne."  
Much as Shirley wanted to contradict him, she could feel an air of reverence coming from these... people? (she wasn't sure about that, they seemed far beyond it, transcended into a role beyond simple personhood) She concluded that they at least sympathized with Laverne's plight, in the silent tongue of a cat's language, and these guardians were not quite certain whether they should help or not. Emotional shifts were felt off the ebb and flow of their dusty breaths, the mummy to the left even going so far as to shudder in a rattling gesture. It came off like an objection, they were decrying the possibility of giving the book over.

Then, Laverne turned her head to look at her friends. More, specifically, at Squiggy.

And so, too, did the three mummies turn their gaze upon him.

"Uh oh," he said.

Shirley clutched his arm in return and the mummies started to move. Their steps were, to her surprise, just like the slow walk of the horror movies that had caused her to hide under the blanket her mother always brought to the movie theater or the ones in books Laverne read aloud to scare her when sleeping over in high school. A walking cliche, she would later think.

Then, their glow started to change color, from a pale blue to an aura of evergreen; a glow that surrounded their bodies. It was that moment Squiggy's grip on Shirley loosened and his eyes widened. "Uh..." he started, then his tone changed as he smiled. "Oh."

Before she could stop him, he was moving away from her and though her mind screamed not to let Squiggy go, he was happy to move toward the undead. The center one brought up a hand so ancient when it turned its wrist, sand fell from its open wrist like a waterfall. With extended appendage, it reached for Squiggy and he in turn reached out his own hand - toward the creature's chest. Shirley realized something and watched the mummy's waist. A sway, a bob of the hips... _feminine_ was the word one would use to describe it. Closer the mummy came, the aura spreading until its glow illumined Squiggy's greaser face and slackened jaw.

It had to stop, she couldn't let it happen, so as scared as she was Shirley reached out to grab Squiggy's arm. Her fingertips reached into the green light, her eyes saw through the veil into what Squiggy himself witnessed - not the mummy as she was, but as a mirage that had been conjured to make this young would-be stud of the 1950s feel welcome. Perhaps this was what this woman of great power and _could_ look like or once had, Shirley's own imagination said it was both. Instead of dried, emaciated flesh covered in rotting dusty rags, the mummy was a human woman in her thirties, a mature woman with beautiful softened skin, wrapped in fine white fibers that gave hints of her sexual physique beneath. Hips here, cleavage there, even a tuft of her pubes peeked. As much as Shirley wanted not to notice these things, she couldn't help but stare at this beauty, entranced by the sight almost as much as Squiggy himself.

Yet, she pulled back, to watch helplessly as Squiggy was pulled into an embrace and kissed by the mummy's dry mouth. He moaned and shuddered, his eyes popping open to show a green glow had begun to come forth from him. At this, Shirley now wished to grab him and yank him away, save him from whatever horrors he would be put under. In a pleading she figured would not go answered, she turned back to Laverne, who stared stoic just like a housecat watching a burglar stealing the family TV. Indifference upon her features. Turning back to him, the monster that was taking his lifeforce, Shirley cried out, "Squiggy!"

Only then did the mummy release him from her kiss.

Squiggy, a little weary, coughed and fell to his knees. The mummy moved with more fluid movements. Her skin was no longer quite so withered, yet even still her glow was not quite as strong as it needed to be to be whole again. Intonations issued from the creatures, three female voices now in unison. They bore once more into Shirley's soul, thanking them for the sacrifice of a few years off the man's life. In return for this gesture, the mummy had agreed they could take the book.

 _For tonight only,_ came a direct idea, shown to Shirley through images brought up in her mind of the dawn just past the storm's eye in only seven hours time. This would get them started, but they would require returning the book or suffer the wrath of yet another curse.

Squiggy, himself clearly having heard the message as well, looked up with dreamy now-dim eyes. "Hey, baby, that was somethin' else, kinda outta this world." As his vision returned to normal, he realized to utmost shock that the reason he felt no wetness on his lips was that he had smooched a creature of the night. And, as one could not consider unexpected, he passed out on the floor. His flashlight rolled dumbly across the tile, twirling light across the wall.

Now left with her best-friend-as-a-cat, who was looking indifferent at the exchange that had taken place, Shirley Feeney trembled as one of the guardian mummies grabbed the book of the dead from its place in the museum's exhibit. When feeling the tome being thrust into her chest, she could do nothing more than grab onto it and nod. The thought of yet more curses and dark magic befalling them was not something she intended on allowing to happen. So, she wouldn't. Once more, the same as every time she realized her friend may be stuck like this forever or that somehow Mr. DeFazio and Mr. Kosnowski would escalate their feud into another bloody conflict, Shirley swallowed her fear down to the deep.

Burdened with something resembling progress for the first time in weeks, she accepted the next step in her destiny.


End file.
